


Wasn't It Good

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Bucket List, Cancer, Love, M/M, Marcky, Misery, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicky thinks back on the years with and without Mark</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasn't It Good

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless cliché misery porn, I know, but this is what happens when it's 2am and you're listening to Tina Arena.

There’s a lot of things I regret, now that it’s all over and done with. I suppose life’s like that – you really don’t realise exactly what you’re doing wrong until after the fact when the consequences come. And fucking hell, have there been a lot of consequences, and a lot of regrets. But the first thing I can remember really regretting is having that fight with you.

It was stupid, wasn’t it? God, I don’t even remember what it was about… probably nothing. All I remember is you screaming at me to ‘get the fuck out, if that’s the way you feel.’ And I went. Maybe if we hadn’t fought you wouldn’t have said that. And maybe if you hadn’t said that, I wouldn’t have left. I wouldn’t have walked out the door. I just needed some time to cool off… you said you understood, later on when we were talking. But I’ll never forgive myself, I don’t think. And I’ve never, and will never, forget coming back home and finding you like that. Face down on the floor, with the lamp-cord twisted around your arm like a snake.

I felt like I was going to throw up. How weak is that? Out of all the things I could have felt right then, it was the urge to vomit. But I think it gave way to the urge to scream when I saw how pale you were, and how still. You were breathing, thank god for that, but you looked… I don’t even want to think about it. I remember screaming… my throat hurt for hours. Screaming your name, over and over and over. But you wouldn’t move. I shook you, and you still wouldn’t move, or wake up.

I called the ambulance. Fuck, if my hands hadn’t been shaking so hard I would’ve called the police department and the fire department and fucking Superman. All I could think of was that you were face down on the floor, and that the last thing I’d said to you was that you were being a stupid, stubborn fuck who could walk under a train for all I cared.

The things you regret later on, hey?

I didn’t let go of your hand the whole way to the hospital. Hell, I think I just about broke it when you finally woke up in the ambulance, an oxygen mask over your face. Your eyes went from sleepy to confused to panicked in about three seconds. It’s probably the fastest I’ve ever seen any part of you move. Your mind was always quick as hell, though. You were sarcastic and mental and the funniest person I’ve ever met. You always made me laugh, you know that? You made me feel like the happiest person alive – I’ve never laughed more than when you were here… I feel like I haven’t laughed at all since… since…

Your eyes opened, and I saw your mouth move behind the mask, your eyes wide, and I squeezed your hand tighter. I’m sorry if I hurt you. “Nix.” You said. I only just heard it, barely audible over the sound of the motor and the machines around us.

“Hey Marky.” Fucking hell, I can still hear myself in my head. It sounded so normal. I still can’t believe how normal it sounded. “It’s okay, hun. You had a fall.”

Understatement of the millennium.

We went to the hospital and they took the mask off. You were pretty much your old self, smiling bemusedly around at all the doctors. I hated hospitals at the time, that was no secret, but by the end of all the shit that went on I can honestly say I never want to set foot in another one. I don’t suppose I will, now. It was the smell that did it. That horrible, sterile, diseased smell. Everything smelled like death, and that was without a doubt the last thing I wanted to think about.

They prodded you for a bit, made blank faces that didn’t mean fuck all to me. They looked grim, but at the time I supposed that was how doctors generally looked. And then they let us go home. Just like that. Told us to come back the next day for test results. Never mind that you’d been sprawled in the middle of the living room not two hours ago. Never mind that I was still picking glass out of my hands from the smashed lamp that you obviously yanked down when you fell. You couldn’t tell me if you had or not. You just remembered feeling a bit dizzy.

The fight didn’t matter any more by the time we got home. You were smiling and laughing, and saying that maybe my good looks had finally bowled you over. We cleaned up the lamp, and you didn’t even mention how it had gotten that way. Just wondered how you’d see your book while I watched the footy. You always were a cheeky bugger.

I couldn’t hack it, you know? There was something wrong, I knew there was. I didn’t want there to be, and I didn’t want your chirpiness and your fucking jokes, not then. I went to bed. I just went, without a word, because I felt like any word I spoke would come out as sob. I lay there, trying not to cry. Something was wrong. And I know you always told me I was a worrier, but I was right, wasn’t I? I wish I hadn’t been.

You were humming when you came upstairs, and you began to get undressed. And then it was like you just paused. Like I’d hit the button on the remote. Your jeans were still unzipped when you climbed in with me. Your arms were almost comforting, and your head was so heavy on my shoulder.

“I’m scared, Nix.”

Your voice trembled, I’ll never forget the way you said it as long as live. I helped you get your jeans off, they were itching me like you wouldn’t believe. We didn’t lay together for long enough, I don’t think, even though it was hours and hours. It’ll never be long enough. I wanted to imprint you into my memory. Your smell, your touch, your taste, your sounds. Just in case…

Do you remember when they told us the next day? The appointment was at midday, and we were so tired because we’d not slept. I didn’t want to sleep, I just wanted you there with me. You nearly nodded off once or twice and I’d prod you awake and pretend I hadn’t. You probably knew anyway. Did you? It seems like the kind of thing you would have done to make me happy. Or so I’d shut up. I fucking loved you for that.

I’m rambling. God. I just don’t want to think about it. I’m avoiding it. There was no easy way to say it – fuck, that doctor looked so uncomfortable. I’m not sure if that made me feel better or worse. He at least looked like it was a big deal, I don’t think I could have stood it if he’d been blank-faced, but it made it that much worse. He knew it was bad. I knew, as soon as I saw him.

The big C. Fuck.

You started to cry. I’d never seen you cry in public. Hell, you barely even cried with me. That was the thing that made it serious to me. And real. The evidence was right there on your face, pouring out of your big blue eyes. I couldn’t cry – strange for me, I know, but that day was so messed up anyway I suppose it made sense. It just hurt. Like something was pressing down on my chest. I couldn’t even move to hug you. I know it sounds selfish now, but I think for a few seconds all wanted to do was yell at you. Ask you how the hell you could do this to me. Make me fall in love with you when it was going to end like this. You’d promised me we were going to die together, old and grey in our rocking chairs. I felt like you’d lied to me. Is that horrible?

I don’t know how I ever got us home, my head felt stuffed with cotton wool. You wouldn’t stop crying. I wanted to yell at you to just shut the fuck up because it was your own fucking fault for smoking all those fucking cigarettes. Totally unrealistic – that wasn’t it at all. I just needed to blame someone or something. But there wasn’t anyone to blame – it was just one of those freak things that happens sometimes. You were only thirty-three, for god’s sakes! And if the doctor was right, you weren’t going to make it to thirty-four.

Terminal fucking cancer. Terminal. Thanks for that, God.

It was another bad night that night. We didn’t kiss and touch the way we had the night before. I could hardly bear to look at you. I know that hurt you – another bloody regret I’ve got under my belt – but I couldn’t face it. Can you understand that? That I didn’t want another moment of loving you knowing I was going to lose it all anyway?

I woke up alone the next morning. You were already downstairs, cooking up a huge fry-up. We’d not had one in awhile, since you’d thrown a strop about me making jokes about your gut. God, I never meant it, and I hope you know that. I loved every single bit of you, especially how cuddly you were. You were warm and safe, and made me feel like nobody else ever could.

You shrugged when I walked into the kitchen and asked what the point was in trying to be healthy anyway. I started to cry then – I hadn’t been able before, you were in so many pieces it felt horrible to cry, and I wanted to hate you so much for what I thought you’d done to me. It really hit home then, you know? And your face… the way you smiled at me, and then pulled me into a hug. How could you have come to terms with it so quickly? Another thing I wanted to hate you for.

There were things, you said, that you wanted to do before you died. You’d written a list while I’d been asleep. A godforsaken fucking list of all these things that you probably wouldn’t have done anyway, if your life hadn’t been so cruelly cut short. They would have been pushed to the side, and one day we’d think ‘hey, we never did that. Oh well.’ But there was this strange sense of urgency now. You really hadn’t come to terms with it, had you? You were always so brave and sunny through the whole thing while I fell apart at your feet. You were always so strong. For me. When you were the one who…

I’m sorry. I’m rambling again, aren’t I? I remember the first thing on your list. Golf. Of all the things you could have chosen, it was that one that you wanted to do first. You made me teach you how to play properly and not hit everything into the bunker or the trees. Strangely enough, that was the one I enjoyed the most, even after the scuba diving and the rollercoasters and the fucking skydiving (I will NEVER forgive you for that!). We managed to keep going every weekend for almost four months, and you were getting pretty good. Giving me a run for my money, anyway. And then one Sunday morning I went in to wake you and you rolled over, pulled the blankets over your head and asked me if we could just sleep in today, you felt too tired. You probably don’t even remember, it was such a small, insignificant moment, but that broke my heart.

Kian cried more than you did when he was told, and that’s saying a lot. You laughed about it afterwards, but I could see in your eyes that you didn’t feel it. I started to hate that sarcastic humour of yours by the end. I could never tell if you were frightened or if you were sad or if there was something wrong, or even if you were actually happy. I know you were trying to be strong for me, but I honestly wish you hadn’t. I wanted to make you happy. I wish that had been on your list as a thing to do. ‘Let Nicky make me happy’. And your mam was even worse. We couldn’t get her out of the house, and I felt so awful for wanting her to go. But I wanted you for myself. I didn’t want to miss a single moment with you, and I didn’t want to share you. She probably felt the same way about me, now that I think about it.

Treatment was obviously pointless, there was nothing they could do, and for that I’m actually grateful. You were in so much pain anyway I didn’t want you going through that when it was going to end the same way anyway. It didn’t occur to me that your hair might fall out anyway, but you wasted away in front of me. I actually missed making jokes about your gorgeous belly, because you didn’t have one. Your arms were thin and bony, they didn’t wrap around me like they had before. There was no comfort in them, though I know you tried, seeing as that was the time I probably needed comfort the most. But every time they wrapped around me it was just more proof that you were slowly wasting away, fading from my life.

You looked so weird with your scalp showing and bits of hair all tufted up in odd places. I would’ve just shaved it off, if it were me. I suggested it. I know that was selfish, but I couldn’t bear to look at you, or the hair that clumped up in your comb. Your eyes looked so big as your cheeks sunk in. You were this sad, beautiful little alien creature that had replaced my Mark. On the outside, anyway. On the inside you were still you. Absolutely perfect, except for the thing that was eating away at you. That was the real alien, wasn’t it? A good metaphor, though that was all we really used to say about it. It wasn’t cancer. It was ‘this thing’, or ‘it’, or ‘the problem’. I didn’t want to think about it as what it was, because that would mean facing what it would do.

I remember, clear as day, walking in and finding you sitting in front of the mirror, running a hand through your stringy, tufty hair. I put my hands on your shoulders and asked you why you didn’t just shave it off. Do you remember what you said to me? I don’t suppose you do, but it stuck with me for a very long time. “I’m not giving into it earlier than I have to.” And your face was so wonderfully resolute I couldn’t help but hug you to me and kiss your face, telling you were as beautiful as the day we first met. Then I went and cried in the bathroom, and when I came downstairs you were putting dinner on the table. Did you know I’d been crying? My eyes were so red and raw all the time in those days I doubt you could tell when I’d been doing it. All the time, it felt like. But I think you did know. You always seemed to, with me.

You made love to me that night. It was strange. Amazing and beautiful, but so surreal. Did you feel it too? You’d been so apologetic about it, but I didn’t mind that it had been almost two weeks since the last time, even though I know you worried. You were so tired all the time, and hopped up on so many painkillers I was surprised you could feel anything at all. I just wanted you comfortable and in my life, that was all. Sex didn’t matter. But that night… you were just incredible. I wanted you to take it easy, to be the one to make you feel good, but you shook your head and kissed me, sliding home. Your arms shook, I remember that. They weren’t quite the sticks they became by the end, but they weren’t as strong as they had been. Tears were pouring down my cheeks, even though you felt so amazing moving inside me. You kept whispering that you loved me and that you were so sorry, and I clung to you, not wanting to let go of you for a single second. I’d never been more in love with you. I hope you know how much I loved you. You were my world. You still are.

We never finished your list. The clever thing would have been to get all the physical things out of the way first, but we’d never been all that clever, the pair of us. Shane used to call us the idiot twins, and he was probably right. We were mad. But god, we had so much fun together.

We did other things though. We drove a lot. You’d sit in the passenger seat, a blanket around you, and listen to the radio. You’d sing along, your voice as beautiful as it had ever been. I got such total joy from listening to you sing – you sounded like an angel, though I suppose that was the last word I wanted to use to describe you at the time. I didn’t want you to be an angel. I wanted my lover here on earth. My Marky. Fuck the halo and the wings, I just wanted your arms around me.

We’d drive out to random places. Just hop in the car and keep driving until we had to turn around. You usually fell asleep in the car on the way back, you got tired so easily, and more than once I pulled over in a panic and shook you awake, sure that you’d gone while I’d been watching the road. You’d always look at me and smirk, as though to say ‘if you think I’m gonna die in the middle of the motorway, you’ve got another thing coming’. But we had another two months, dammit. They promised us six months when they diagnosed you, and you weren’t going a moment before. I wouldn’t have let you, and I mean that. I couldn’t stop you going, but I wasn’t going to lose a single second of the time I had. You were mine, and they couldn’t take you before I was ready. Not that I ever could have been ready.

Once we drove out into the country and parked. We didn’t often park – you weren’t well enough to get out and walk around, so we’d just drive and look at the scenery and talk. But this time we stopped the car, after you pointed out a little wooded area along the side of the road. There was a lake, you said, though I couldn’t see it. So we got your wheelchair out and I wrapped your blanket and scarf around you and off we went. You were right, there was a lake, a few minutes walk into the trees. How on earth did you know it was there? You never did tell me, just smiled mysteriously when I asked and said it was intuition. I wouldn’t have been surprised if that had been the truth, to be honest. You always looked like you knew something more than I did.

I hated you for what you told me next. I suppose it’s the cliché ‘dying boyfriend’ speech, isn’t it? Hallmark movie of the week shit. You need to go on, you need to live your life, you need to find love again. I got angry at you, and I’m sorry for that, but I couldn’t stand hearing a word of it. I thought you had no right telling me what to do when you weren’t even going to be here to see it happen, and your face when I told you so… You had that whole speech planned out didn’t you? And I destroyed it. You looked so broken, like that was all you had to hang onto. Believing that I’d be okay. But you know what, I wasn’t. I wasn’t okay, and you had no right to tell me that I had to be.

We went back to the car, but we didn’t set off straight away. I couldn’t let it end like that, could I? That ended a lot of fights over that last seven months (we got one more than we asked for, I couldn’t believe it!), the idea that you might slip away from me before I could tell you I was sorry and that I loved you. I did love you. I still love you. You’re the only one for me, and you always will be. You looked at me so defeated, and there was nothing I could do but lean over and hold you, the gearstick sticking into me the whole time. I got a fucking awful bruise from it, but I couldn’t have cared less. You held me too, your arms so thin by that point, and told me you were sorry. I know I said it was okay, but it really wasn’t. Nothing was okay.

You fell asleep on the way back and I prodded you awake again. I know you knew I was doing it. You had tears on your face when you woke. That nearly killed me.

I wanted to make love to you when we got home, but you were asleep before your head hit the pillow. You were always so tired, and that was the thing I hated the most. Every second you slept, another second slipped away from us.

We only made love once more before you… you left me. You didn’t come. You couldn’t even get hard, you were so full of drugs and in so much pain. I still wanted to love you, even if we couldn’t make love in the conventional sense. I wanted to imprint you on my memory. I could feel you slipping away from me and I didn’t want to lose my chance. I kissed every inch of you, and I mean every inch. There wasn’t an inch of you that wasn’t touched and kissed and smelled and tasted. I lay looking at you for hours, while you smiled sadly at me and stroked my hair. Thank you for letting me do that. The only thing I could have needed more at that point was to keep you.

You didn’t have many coherent days after that. I’m so glad I memorised you then, when you were still entirely you. It was agonising, watching that beautiful, funny, clever, sexy man I knew slipping away from me. I know you had to have the painkillers, I wouldn’t have stood you being in so much pain, but you were almost an empty shell on them, when it got to the end. But on the coherent days you were amazing. We laughed a lot, even though it felt so wrong to do so. I felt like I shouldn’t stop crying, though I did that so much my eyes never stopped being bloodshot. I’m glad you didn’t let me take you to the hospital – I couldn’t have stood seeing you like that the last time, surrounded by machines and sterile white sheets and sickly green walls.

You talked a lot of bollocks when you were out of it, I don’t know if you know. Once you asked me for a cheeseburger, and it was so absurd I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It came out as this choked sort of sob, that was half laughter and half tears. I was stretched out across your fucking chest, crying all over you, while you looked up at the ceiling, your eyes all glazed. I told you we’d get one the next day, and you just sort of nodded and shrugged, and didn’t say anything.

I was like that, lying across your chest, when you stopped breathing. At the time I thought I must have put too much pressure on your chest and stopped you breathing, but that was a stupid thing to think, wasn’t it? You’d tell me it was stupid, I know you would. I didn’t want you to go like that. I wanted to be looking in your eyes, see them close that last time, I never got that chance. I wanted that last moment, and it was stolen away from me. I wanted to be the last thing you saw, not the ceiling, or the top of my head. I needed that.

You were having a good day. You were smiling and saying stupid things in that croaky, sick voice that started to creep in during those last two weeks. It was your birthday in a week, and you were trying to figure out what I should get you. It wasn’t like I could get you a car or something long-term. You didn’t know it, but I’d already bought your present. I wanted something; I wanted a reason for you to make it those last seven days. It was a beautiful silver Celtic cross with our names etched in the back, strung on a silver chain. You were buried in it, I made sure of that. I wanted you to take it with you, some sort of symbol of us, so that if there was something after you’d always remember me. And I wanted you to have it on your birthday.

There’s no way I can erase the moment from my mind, I’ll never be able to. “Oh Nix,” you laughed, your scrawny hand stroking up and down my arm. “I really do fucking love you.”

I told you I loved you too, and I hugged you, putting my head on your chest. I wonder, sometimes, if you remember feeling my hair between your fingers as you stroked it, if that was the last thing you felt, or if it was just pain. I hope it wasn’t pain. I didn’t want you going like that. I wanted it to be peaceful, with me. You stroked my hair a little longer, and I wanted to lift my head when I felt the strokes get slower and slower, but your heart was beating under my cheek and it felt so reassuring. For a moment, you were right there, and I felt as though nothing could beat us. As though you’d be here forever.

Your chest rose and fell, so soothing, and then you inhaled. And then you exhaled.

And then… nothing.

I had the urge to throw up, the same one I’d had when I’d found you, when all that shit had started. I couldn’t even move for a second, I wanted to stay, to wait for the inevitable inhale. But there was nothing there. I couldn’t feel your heart beating. I sat up slowly, not wanting to look at you. But I did. Your eyes were closed, as if you were asleep, and your hand curled on your chest where I’d slipped out from under it. I couldn’t scream this time, tears lodged it in my throat, all I could do was shake you, sobbing, but you wouldn’t wake up. It looked like you’d just fallen asleep. I knew you’d just fallen asleep. I knew it.

A lot of things happened very fast after that. There was the funeral to organise. I couldn’t face it, so thank god you’d made all the arrangements beforehand. Thank you so much for that – I couldn’t have done it. Your family did most of it, and the lads helped out by staying with me. I couldn’t get Shane out of the house for a month. I think it was just as much for him as for me. He wanted to talk about you, but I couldn’t listen. He’d missed so much, touring around the world with his solo career. He was in Manila when you died, you know? He wanted to be there, I don’t doubt it for a second, but I couldn’t listen to him go on about how much he loved you when I could still feel the tingle of your last breath against my cheek.

Time went on, I suppose. So many people say their loved ones stay around to watch over them, but I didn’t feel that with you. I’d never felt so alone in my life. You were gone. I wasn’t even forty, and my life had ended, it felt like. It was ten years before I even looked at someone else, and that lasted less than a week. I was trying too hard, I think, to be over you, when that was positively the last thing I wanted. How could anyone be over you? How could anyone begin to be close to what you were to me?

My own company was okay. There wasn’t room for other people in my life. You left a hole that couldn’t be filled, so there was no point trying. My family came round a lot, and I think they tried, bless them, but they gave up eventually. I was probably a real bastard to them, but it’s too late to think about apologising now. I’m not young, and they’re not around anymore. Kian went last year. Not cancer, just his time. How is he? I’ve wanted to ask. I went to his funeral, but everything seemed so off-kilter. Everything had changed. I tried, at the beginning, to be friendly with everyone, but they only reminded me of you. I couldn’t see them without seeing your face. We drifted apart, except for the Christmas and birthday cards and pictures of the kids and grandkids.

Don’t think I’m some kind of crazy hermit, I’m not. I know you wouldn’t want that for me. I have other friends, people who don’t remind me of you, but they don’t fill that void either. I finished off your list, in case you were wondering. Cooking classes, a trip to Niagara falls, learning to juggle. The bathroom looks really nice – you were right, burgundy looks perfect with the tiles. I’ve had a good life, all things considered, but it’s time to go now. I want to see you again. I’ve wanted to see you for the last forty years. I’ve been more than half my life without you, and that’s enough.

 

***

 

Nicky looked up as a soft breeze brushed across his skin, ruffling his hair. The room was empty as usual, and the curtains ruffled slightly in the wind. He smiled weakly, curling his knees to his chest and closing his eyes. He’d been so sore the last couple of days, his arthritis playing up something horrible in the bad weather. He’d never felt so tired, every inch of him aching. But it seemed to ebb away a little as the breeze fluttering the curtains spread over him, enveloping him.

He tried to open his eyes, but it was too hard, and he sighed, not really all that bothered. His head had felt cloudy for the past few hours, and now he could barely think. Everything was suddenly blacker, even though his eyes were shut anyway. Then he shivered as he felt the unmistakeable feeling of soft lips pressing to his ear.

“Hey.” A deep voice that no-one else could hear whispered, brushing over his skin.

“Hey.” Nicky replied, smiling.


End file.
